silence and noises and space inbetween
by cthulhu-with-a-fez
Summary: My contributions towards SoMa Week 2014. Now complete. Day 7: First 'I love you.'
1. New Roommates, New Officers

Soul strolled down the center of the long, almost barn-like army barracks, eyes flickering side to side in search of an unclaimed bed. After having been processed and issued his gear, the sergeant on duty had given him curt instructions to report to the barracks until 1400 hours. At that time, Captain Albarn would address them – although judging by Sgt. Barrett's tone of voice while delivering the name of his commanding officer, Soul was almost certain that the captain wasn't exactly someone he WANTED to meet. Spotting an open space near the end of the row, he tossed his kit down by the foot of the bed and sat down next to it, quietly observing the flurry of activity around him as the other soldiers unpacked their personal effects. Soul snorted cynically and lay back on the hard mattress. Personal effects were for people with a girl waiting for them back home, or a family who gave a damn. He had neither, and as far as he knew his piano didn't care that he'd been drafted. Tilting his head to the side, he watched two of the new recruits – one slender, pale, and dark-haired, the other a riot of blue hair, rumpled clothing, and a complete lack of volume control – gesticulate wildly as they argued over something. More than likely, that something was the fact that the blue-haired one was currently jumping around on and generally ruining the slender one's previously impeccably-made bed. Soul only caught snatches of their argument through the general clamor of the barracks (something about symmetry from the irate owner of the bed and godhood from the noisy one jumping on it) as he pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off his burgeoning headache. Even after spending weeks in much the same conditions during boot camp, he still wasn't used to the extreme discrepancy between the solitude of his apartment and the noise and bustle resulting from living with upwards of fifty people at once.

Maka Albarn paced the floor of the administration building, a heavy leather-bound ledger in hand, as she cursed her father's utter lack of both sense and punctuality with as much vitriol as she could muster. It was an impressive amount. Spirit was supposed to have reported back to the base almost twenty minutes ago to address the new recruits, a task he'd conveniently forgotten about in favor of skirt-chasing at the local bar. Again. And Maka, reluctant though she was to admit any kind of need for her wayward and philandering relation, knew that trying to do so would be significantly harder without him present. Although everyone on the base knew that Spirit was the commanding officer in name only, Maka had exactly zero confidence in the latest pack of recruits to respect any kind of female authority beyond their mothers. Pulling rank was out, since she technically didn't have any rank to pull, and she very seriously doubted that they would obey her without it. Casting one last glance at the clock on the wall and resigning herself to a completely unproductive address, Maka turned on her heel and strode towards the barracks. She was already in a foul mood; God help the unfortunate private who drew her ire.

"Troops, attention!"

Soul obeyed the sharp order with alacrity, as did the rest of the recruits. They were facing each other in two rows of thirty, about six feet apart, as a petite woman with ash-blond hair and a heavy ledger paced briskly down the aisle they had created. She wore a dress uniform much like the one he'd been issued at the start of his training, with only a few exceptions - the knee-length skirt being the most noticeable. Soul also saw that she also wore sturdy combat boots in place of dress shoes. Her hair was pulled back in a neat braid, and she wore a brassy pin in the shape of the division's insignia.

"At ease," she said, slightly less sharply than before. They relaxed into parade rest as she continued pacing.

"My name is Maka Albarn. For the duration of this campaign, you will consider me your commanding officer."

_So this is Captain Albarn?_ Soul thought to himself. _I didn't expect her to be… well… a her._

"You may address me as Ms. Albarn, or as ma'am. Nothing else."

_No rank?_

"My _father_," she continued, venom dripping from the word, "is _technically_ your commanding officer."

_Then why isn't _he_ the one addressing us?_

"He is, however, completely incompetent, and leaves it to me to fulfill his duties."

_Ah. Not one to mince words, is she._

"I expect that you afford me the same respect as you would a captain, and -"

"Aw, like HELL am I taking orders from some dame playing soldier," cut in one of the men down the row. After a quick glance towards the interrupting voice, Soul inwardly winced as he recognized the man by the metal band across his nose. Giriko had gotten a bad reputation during the weeks of basic training for being lecherous, rough, and sometimes even violent towards anything in a skirt – and even though Albarn carried an air of unquestionable and absolute command about her, Soul knew Giriko would have no qualms about treating her the same way.

The blond had abandoned parade rest for an indolent slouch, leering at their new commanding officer. "Pretty thing like you should find a man, do as you're told and get f-"

In a single fluid motion - almost faster than Soul could track - Albarn had whirled around and sent the man sprawling in the dirt, a resounding _thwack_ punctuating her action as the ledger's spine connected with the crown of his head. Kicking his prostrate limbs to the side, she continued pacing down their ranks as if nothing had happened.

"As I was SAYING," she continued, "I expect that you afford me the same respect as you would a captain, and no less. Yes, I am a woman. No, that does not decrease or otherwise affect my ability to command. Do I make myself abundantly clear?" Her words rang out in the absolute silence of the ranks, any brief surges of dissent having been instantly quashed with her impressive and swift display of force.

"MA'AM, YES MA'AM!" they chorused hoarsely, in fear for the integrity of their skulls.

"Excellent." A smile flashed briefly across her face as she turned to stride away, tossing a final command over her shoulder. "Dismissed."

Soul remained in place for a moment, frozen in awe, before turning to file back into the barracks after his new roommates, tossing a glance at Giriko as he went. The man was still lying on the ground with a sizeable dent in his head from Albarn's ledger, and Soul had absolutely no sympathy for him. If Giriko was going to go around acting like a rat bastard, especially to a lady, he deserved to get his head bashed in for his troubles. Still, Soul made an adamant mental note to never get on his captain's bad side. Ever. Getting the spine of a hardback lodged in his skull was probably not beneficial to his health. Drawn from his musings by the ambient conversation, Soul wasn't surprised to hear that the sole topic of discussion was on Albarn's address – and more specifically, her ledger of doom.

"—did you SEE how fast she hit him? DAMN, she's scary."

"To be fair, Giriko had it coming. You just don't _say_ shit like that to ladies."

"Do you think she carries that book around with her all the time, though?"

"Tch. I'd like to see her try and take him on without it."

Soul didn't have much frame of reference for their commanding officer's combat abilities, but judging by her deadly efficient wielding of that book he had a suspicion that she'd be just as dangerous without it. She didn't seem like the kind of person who'd allow themselves to be defenseless.

"Nah, you don't know Maka like I do. She could kick all of your asses in ten seconds flat, and that's a fact."

Soul halted his progress towards the back of the room, mildly surprised to have his thoughts voiced. Even more surprising, however, was the fact that the speaker had used her first name so casually. Turning around, he found that the speaker was none other than the blue-haired kid, currently sitting crosslegged on one of the beds.

"How would you know that?" The words were out of his mouth before he had the chance to regret his curiosity.

The blue-haired kid shrugged. "I basically grew up with her - she's kinda like my sister. Army brats gotta stick together, right?"

He jumped off the bed and walked over to Soul, the rest of the recruits discussing this latest bit of information behind him. He extended his hand. "Blake Barrett, but you can call me Black*Star. You?"

"Soul Evans," he replied, and shook the proffered hand. He thought about asking his new friend (he supposed) about his somewhat unorthodox appearance, but stopped that train of thought as quickly as it appeared. He was really in no condition to criticize, given his own… well, _outward peculiarities_ was putting it nicely. Instead he asked the second question that had occurred to him after making Black*Star's acquaintance and the one less likely to result in a scene should the other man take offense. "You say you grew up with Albarn, right"

"Yeah, what of it?"

"Not to pry, but what's the deal with her dad? She seemed to hate his guts."

Black*Star snorted. "That's an understatement. Old Man Albarn _really _got around, his wife took off, and Maka hates him for it, basically. Doesn't help that he's a fucking moron, god only knows how he made captain."

"Ah," Soul replied blankly.

"It's pretty much in name only, though. Everyone around here knows that Maka's the one who gets shit done. She'd be a general in no time if people around here took ladies seriously, and that's a fact."

Soul thought about arguing the point, years of indoctrinated opinions about women rebelling against Black*Star's statement. Then he stopped, thought about it, and concluded that any enemy with sense would retreat in a second if they heard that she was on the battlefield. _She could probably take out the entire S.S. with just that damned ledger,_ he thought to himself, remembering the ease with which she'd taken out Giriko on the parade grounds.

Soul broke from his thoughts as Black*Star leaned in suddenly, looking like he was going to impart some great secret of the universe. "A word to the wise, bro? Don't try to flirt with her. Don't even try, or you will end up with a book embedded so deep in your skull that you'll spit paper for a week. And that's if you live."

"I take it you know this from experience?"

Black*Star's nose wrinkled in distaste, hands waving vaguely as if to shoo away the words. "Secondhand only, minion. Did you miss the part where she's basically my sister?"

"Okay, okay, sorry." Soul held up his hands in surrender. "Do not anger Albarn. Do not flirt with Albarn. Doing so will make your skull her new bookshelf. Got it."

"You'll do just fine, then!" Black*Star crowed, clapping him on the shoulder. "Come on, minion, let's get to the mess hall while the food's still edible."

Soul rose to follow him, thinking all the while of his hellion of a commanding officer. He compared her briefly to the fluttery society girls he'd been expected to woo back home, and almost laughed at how mind-bogglingly different she was from any girl he'd ever known. She would probably give his mother a heart attack if they ever met, he thought. Even after just a few minutes in her presence, the steel in her spine had impressed him deeply. She had strength and resolve, and a pride in her own strength that Soul could see in her eyes. Growing up in a high-society family like he did, he'd developed and honed to perfection his ability to read people - and he knew that Albarn was someone he'd follow to hell and back without a single regret, official rank or not. Lucky for him, then, that the widely accepted definition of hell had become Axis-occupied Europe. And lucky for him that he was contractually obligated to follow her there anyway.


	2. Three Times Soul Got A Nosebleed

(1)

Soul took a running leap through the window of the ridiculous pumpkin house, fueled by a mixture of teenage invincibility, annoyance with his meister's affinity for plans, and a desire to just become a freakin' Death Scythe already – because how cool would that be? His arrival was heralded by shattering glass (an appropriately badass soundtrack, he thought to himself), and the witch looked up in surprise. From her bathtub. _Fuck. _His eyes widened in surprise and panic, brain struggling to process the fact that he was hurtling, arm transformed, directly at a –

"_NAKED LADYYYYYYYY!_"

His headlong tumble was halted abruptly by something soft, and warm, and… wet?

"What are you doing down there, little boy?" asked a curious voice, and Soul's brain kicked in long enough to inform him that yes, his face was currently squished down in the witch's cleavage, and yes, she was asking him why he was down there, and yes, these were BOOBS –

Cue gushing fountain of blood from his nose, an irate meister, and a few new plans.

(2)

Soul lay sprawled out on their kitchen floor, wearing nothing but his boxer shorts and some rapidly disappearing ice cubes. The cool tiles were a balm for the Nevada summer heat, the alleviation usually brought by their apartment's air conditioning conspicuously absent due to Blair neglecting the bill. AGAIN. Even Maka, who had grown up in the constricting heat, was having a tough time of it this summer – there had been a record heat wave this year, and Soul was seriously considering transforming permanently into his weapon form and submerging himself in a fountain or something to cool off properly. Unfortunately, that was not an option – he was stuck with sprawling out in a sweaty mess beneath the sluggish fan, praying that the A/C issue would be resolved before he died of heatstroke. Maka was reading on the couch, slightly less miserable than he was, and deeply absorbed into her book. He wondered if she was reading about something cold.

"At least it's dry," he mumbled, the slight sound enough to rouse Maka from her book trance. She peered into the kitchen at him almost owlishly, senses clearly dulled by the heat just as much as his were.

"Ehh?"

"It's dry heat. Not humid," he clarified, giving up on the ice cubes as a lost cause and sitting up to face her. "Even if it's not as hot out, it automatically becomes 300 percent more miserable if it's humid. I grew up on the East Coast, Maka, I know these things." He flapped his hands vaguely, partially to demonstrate his complete and total knowledge of humid summers and partly to try and encourage some air circulation to the limbs.

She closed her book. "I do too, Soul. Well, a little bit," she amended. "Remember that mission we took to hunt down the kishin in… where was it, Florida?"

"The one with the alligator slime monster?" He shuddered. "Death, don't even remind me of that one."

"In midsummer?"

He groaned. Thinking about the absolutely miserable climate during that mission was NOT helping him to avoid heatstroke.

"With all the – hey, Soul, are you _bleeding?_"

The note of slight panic in her voice set off all of his internal alarms. Registering her words, he did a cursory body check – nothing was hurting outside the headache brought on by the heat.

"I don't know, am I?"

"Yeah, from your nose. You didn't notice?"

His hand darted up to check, and sure enough there were streaks of carmine across his index finger when he pulled it away. As soon as he'd cleaned off the blood it had started to ooze forth again. Staring blankly at his stained finger, he let out the one word his beleaguered and half-boiled brain could come up with.

"SHIT."

(3)

Soul groaned, a headache of absolutely ridiculous proportions pounding through his skull. He hadn't had a mission last night, he knew that much, and Maka hadn't chopped him hard enough to warrant this level of pain in at least two months. What the hell had happened?

"Good, you're awake."

His meister's voice sent a sharp pulse of agony through his head and he groaned again, rubbing at the crusted blood beneath his nose. Wait… blood?

"… the hell?" he murmured, feeling the red-brown substance flake off of his skin.

"Black*Star spiked the punch last night, or don't you remember?" Hearing the barely-contained fury in her voice, Soul looked up to find Maka with arms crossed and lips pressed together in a thin line of irritation.

Ah. That would explain it.

Kid had hosted a graduation party for them all (at the urging of the Thompsons), and he'd asked Soul and Maka to bring the punch. Which meant Maka, mostly, since Soul couldn't do much in the kitchen to save his life – and because Maka had developed a punch recipe that was scientifically proven to be the nectar of the gods. All of them. Including Black*Star, whose only philosophy regarding the drink was that if it was that good straight, it would be even better with the addition of alcohol. After he'd said as much to Maka at its first party debut, she'd guarded the punch at every subsequent party with a level of vigilance that would have impressed Batman.

Soul rubbed his temples in a valiant attempt to reduce the pain of his headache to a dull roar, mentally cursing his friend. While he was definitely in favor of booze at a party (come on, he was a teenage boy – it was practically criminal not to be), he would DEFINITELY prefer that it not be so well-hidden. Especially when he used the excuse of 'going to get punch' for psyching himself up to ask Maka to dance, damn it! After six or seven (very) large cups of punch spiked with some ungodly amount of whatever it was that Black*Star had used, Soul's memory went AWOL.

He groaned again. "Everything after my fifth cup is a very noisy fuzz. Care to full me in?"

Maka's lips pursed as she thought through a logical summary of the evening's activities. "Well, first you got really talkative. You're a very chatty drunk, Soul, has anyone told you that?"

He shook his head. She continued. "Then you went off and challenged Black*Star to a dance-off."

Judging by the way her lip curled with displeasure around the name of their blue-haired teammate, Soul knew that she would be Chopping him with vigor the next time they met. For the sake of his friend's skull, Soul made a mental note to make the next time a long while from now. He winced after hearing that he'd started a dance-off, of all things, but he'd definitely done more embarrassing things in public. Grabbing a half-empty water bottle from his bedside table, he took a large mouthful and swished it around, waiting to hear what other ridiculous things he'd done while shitfaced.

"Then Black*Star kissed me-"

Soul interrupted the rest of that sentence with what was possibly the biggest spit-take in recorded history. Eyes wide in shock, Soul wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "He- you- I- WHAT?"

Maka smiled a little at his reaction. "You reacted kinda the same way last night, albeit slightly less coherently. And it was only on the cheek," she reassured him.

He dragged a hand down his face, steeling himself for impending mortification. "Oh god, what did I do?"

She giggled. "You, um. You pulled him away from me, delivered some pretty garbled curses, and then punched him in the face."

"Oh Death, if you have any mercy, smite me now," he moaned to the heavens. Or to the Death Room. Or… wherever. "Still doesn't explain the nosebleed, though."

Maka made a face. "You guys started brawling. Eventually, Liz and Patti had to step in and break it up. Tsubaki and I got the two of you home before you could destroy anything."

"Ah."

That would definitely explain the nosebleed.

(+1)

Maka spun Soul's scythe form desperately, trying to block each of the numerous sparking legs of the kishin before it could shock her. The one they'd been sent to fight was a holy terror and no mistake – looking a bit like a centipede crossed with a spider and able to send out electric shocks strong enough to overload an entire power grid, it was deemed necessary to have Shibusen's top team take on the job after one of the rookie weapon/meister pairs had nearly been killed after encountering it. The hunt for the beast had been relatively simple – a creature of its distinctive attributes wasn't very hard to spot. It was fighting the damn thing, each leg a live wire, that was difficult. Even fighting to the considerable extend of their combined abilities, the thing was tough – especially since a single touch from the kishin's body in an unprotected place would more than likely spell the end for both of them. Soul winced as another jolt of electricity surged through his form, the durable demon steel not capable of dispersing the charge.

"They shoulda sent Ox and Harvar for this one. They're built to deal with this shit."

A pulse of amusement shot through their resonance link. "Yeah, but we were the only members of Spartoi available on such short notice."

"True. DUCK-!" He bit out the last word as Maka followed his instructions, performing a graceful roll beneath yet another of the kishin's flailing legs. Thank Death the thing wasn't smart enough to use its abilities to their best advantage, or it's entirely likely that they'd be in deeper shit than they already are. Normally it wouldn't be a problem – a quick Witch Hunter (or even a Genie Hunter, if the kishin was that strong) and they'd be done. But there were _so many legs…_

Until the legs stopped coming.

"Is it over?" Maka asked, breathing heavily. She didn't drop her guard, though – some kishin played dead, looking for a chance to strike when their opponent's vigilance waned.

Soul looked at the beast from the blade of the scythe, observing its twitching legs as they curled around its bulbous, bloated body. _This thing is what happens when that bigass spider from Lord of the Rings fuses with a Pikachu, _he thought distastefully, and then immediately cursed the mental image that sprung up for ruining two whole franchises in one. Way to go, brain. Resuming his watch of the creature, he tilted his head to the side. It might just be residual electricity or something, but the yellowish currents of electricity around the beast's coiled legs weren't dispersing. Instead, they were… synchronizing?

His first thought was _What the fuck?_

His second thought, followed by a horrified widening of the eyes, was _Oh, SHIT –_

He didn't have a third one. He simply reacted. Streaming out of weapon form to re-solidify several yards in front of his meister, he transformed his right arm up to the elbow into a blade and pointed it directly at the monster before Maka had a chance to react to his actions.

And that's when the electricity hit.

Soul screamed, long and raw like the sounds were clawing over each other to escape from his throat. Fighting every instinct he had that said to run away, keep yourself safe, _get rid of the lightning rod attached to your body, _he stood his ground. Because to run away from this was to let Maka get fried in his place. And that is unacceptable. The electricity ravaged through his body, first through his flesh before rebounding through the echo of demon steel that hid behind his bones, until Soul didn't know how long he'd been trapped in the current. Months, probably, but it could have been half a second as well. All that mattered was keeping Maka safe. He wondered, absently, whether Harvar has to deal with this every time he and Ox resonated, before strengthening his focus. Maka. He had to protect Maka...

And then everything was black.

Maka stood, frozen in shock, as her weapon's body hit the floor. A second passed. Then another.

"No," she whispered, small steps disjointed as she approached Soul's prone form. The stench of charred skin filled the air.

A tear slipped down her cheek as she collapsed to her knees, gathering his upper body into her arms. She rocked back and forth, ignoring the static shocks left over from the kishin's attack, and keened softly. As Soul's head rolled to the side, Maka could see a thin trickle of blood flowing from his nose. And she howled.


	3. The Definition of Insanity

_"Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results." - Albert Einstein_

Blair stared intently at the thing on the wall, hat perched jauntily on her head and tail twitching slightly. It was right there, she could see it, she was GOING to catch it this time.

Pounce.

(Thunk.)

Rubbing her aching skull with one paw, Blair sighed. She'd been hunting that dot all afternoon, it seemed like, with no success. No matter how many times she pounced on it or scrabbled to pin it beneath her paws, it always slipped right out of her reach. She'd almost had it that time, though. It had skittered away between her toes before she could properly trap it down - damn that small, green spot of light! Contemplating whether or not to pounce on it again, she tilted her small head to the side to get a better angle on the thing. Right as she was preparing to leap once again, the light went out! Mewling soulfully, she paced around the room to find her kittens sitting on the couch. Maka hurriedly tucked away a small silver device, but Blair discounted it as unimportant. There was a serious matter to attend to!

"Maka-chan, have you noticed any green dots around lately?"

Maka smiled the kind of smile that meant she was biting back laughter. "Um, no. Can't say I have. Why?"

"Bu-tan thinks her kittens might have an infestation," she said, nodding sagely as she delivered this important and potentially devastating piece of news. She'd only ever seen one dot at a time, but it was no guarantee of safety from them – especially since it stubbornly refused to be caught.

"An infestation of… dots?" asked her scythe-boy. His laconic demeanor didn't let her read as much emotion as she could from Maka, but he seemed to be on the verge of laughter as well. She pinned her ears back in irritation and hissed. This wasn't a laughing matter at all!

"Soul-kuuuun, this is serious!" she mewed, a note of irritation creeping into her voice. "What if they're dangerous? I haven't been able to catch a single one!"

Hearing a giggle erupt from behind her, Blair whipped her head around to find Maka valiantly attempting to restrain laughter. The magical cat puffed up in frustration, sheathing and unsheathing her claws. Not that she would ever seriously hurt her kittens, but they _just weren't listening to her!_

"Fine! If you won't take Bu-tan's warning seriously, then you can deal with it on your own!" Summoning every scrap of dignity she could muster (and being a cat, that was quite a large amount), Blair flounced out of the apartment's open window.

Soul and Maka looked at each other for exactly three seconds after Blair's departure before bursting into uproarious laughter.

"I – ahahaha – I honestly didn't think it would work on Blair!" Soul crowed, shaking with mirth.

"An infestation of dots, though? We only have the one laser pointer!"

He tilted his head to the side, contemplating her query. Then he shrugged. "Cats are weird. Who knows what she was thinking about, really?"

"That's true," Maka conceded. A wicked grin curled up the corners of her mouth as she continued, and Soul leaned forward intently. Whenever his meister used her gigantic nerd brain for evil, something truly epic always came of it.

"If she thinks it's an infestation with just the one, how do you think Blair would deal with two of them at once?" she said, eyebrow arching up like a vaudeville villain's.

"The damn cat would probably have a heart attack," he snorted, before a light of mischief flickered in his eyes. "Let's do it."

Humming a jaunty little ditty, Blair padded happily around the apartment. No strange dots had been seen, she'd eaten a very nice fish last night (the extremely-resilient-to-death-by-nosebleed fish shop guy truly was a treasure), and all was well with the world.

Or so she had thought. The dot was back, and this time there was a red one, too!

Dropping into a hunter's crouch, Blair eyed the open stretch of wall and the two flickering dots that adorned it. She was going to get these dots if it killed her!

Leaping up and batting furiously at the wall, Blair's struggle to catch the dots continued. Maybe if she showed one to Soul or Maka, they'd believe her about the infestation! Snarling slightly, her flurry of activity continued with renewed vigor.

Across the room, the two human residents of the apartment hid behind the couch. Maka was wielding a green laser pointer, Soul a red one, and both were shaking with silent laughter as their cat continued to flail.


	4. Loyalty to the Queen

"You're making me WHAT?"

Lady Maka Albarn, only daughter of Lord Spirit Albarn, stalked forwards towards her father's seat. The vast hall was all but empty and her words echoed through the room, adding weight to the words issued from her slight frame. Spirit, for his part, cringed backwards under the weight of his daughter's barely restrained fury.

"I know this is sudden, but…" He trailed off with a sigh and bowed his head. "You know as well as I do that we have no other choice."

Maka's shock and outrage ebbed and faded at his words, and she sighed in a counterpoint to her father's earlier exhalation. She knew all too well. Ever since her mother returned to her own kingdom of origin, relations with them had been increasingly strained – and recently, thinly-veiled indications of an oncoming war had crept into the missives received from their diplomats. Their domain's only hope was to form an alliance with one of the neighboring nations to bolster their strength, and the only way to do that was through a marriage. _Not that marriage bonds were enough to keep Mama here,_ she thought bitterly, before collecting herself and returning her gaze to her father.

"Very well. I'll…" She paused, swallowing down her pride. Kingdom before self, after all. The mantra that had defined her childhood and her education echoed through her thoughts once again as she steeled herself to continue. "I'll do it."

Spirit smiled sadly. "That's my girl."

"I do have one request, however." Maka's frosty tone made it abundantly clear that whatever request was forthcoming was a command, and a condition of her cooperation. Even so, Spirit perked up slightly at the opportunity to curry favor with his semi-estranged daughter in the wake of his unwelcome announcement. Noting his receptive attitude, Maka continued.

"I wish to spend time getting to know my… _betrothed,_" she said, carefully burying the underlying vitriol, "before the wedding day. Surely that's not too much to ask?" The question was worded much more softly, the tone almost one of supplication.

Spirit smiled, pleased to be able to deliver an affirmative response for once. "That's already been arranged, actually. You see, Lord and Lady Evans requested some time ago for you to meet their son when the betrothal was proposed."

"The Evans family?" Maka asked, brow furrowing. She recognized the name. If she remembered correctly (and she nearly always did), they ruled a moderately sized domain to the west of her family's kingdom and kept a large standing body of trained warriors. Gaining their loyalty through marriage would certainly be a tremendous aid if there was to be a war, but there was only one problem. "I thought their son was already married?

"The older one is, yes. You're to be wed to the younger."

Maka grimaced. She'd only ever seen him once, at one of the numerous social functions a lady of her status was expected to host and attend. He'd slipped away before she could so much as greet him, leaving her with only a vague impression of white hair and shadowed, burgundy eyes. So this was her betrothed: a second-born and likely a near total shut-in.

She sighed. This was certainly going to be pleasant.

* * *

Soul paced the floor of his spacious bedroom, tugging at the uncomfortably tight collar of his shirt. He should have expected this, really. His family was one of the more affluent of the nobles, and most boys his age had been betrothed for several years. It was only living in his older brother's shadow, as well as his natural tendency towards aloofness, that had kept him out of the lineup this long. Now his brother was married, he was betrothed to Lord Albarn's daughter, and there was nothing he could do about it. He only had a vague memory of her from the only social event his parents had ever forced him to attend. She had been radiant in the light of the chandelier, he remembered, smiling and laughing and probably saying all the right things to all the right people in exactly the way he'd never been able to. He'd ducked out onto one of the balconies as soon as he could after arriving, breathing easier after being released from the press of people in the ballroom. Soul hadn't reentered the room until the event was over, hadn't even spoken to the girl. But he remembered her eyes.

Glancing up at the small clock, Soul cursed softly before turning to exit his room. Lord Albarn and his daughter would be arriving soon, and he was definitely required to be present for it. Grimacing briefly at the prospect, he quickly forced his face back into the mask of composure and politeness that his parents expected of him. He wished Wes was still around. His brother was worlds better than him at… basically everything, really, but especially at navigating the social niceties born of the status that bound them hand and foot. Soul had little patience for such things, but since Wes was gone, he would have to play nice to his… _fiancée. _

He still couldn't really believe it.

Rounding the last corner before the central staircase, a broad and sweeping thing that practically screamed 'overstated affluence', Soul took a deep breath to steel himself for the upcoming ordeal. And an ordeal it certainly would be, since there really wasn't anything else _for _it to be. He scoffed, the small noise harsh against the heavy silence. He wasn't exactly a catch, he knew that, even with his family name. The best he could hope for out of this was for Lady Maka Albarn to not actively despise him.

Descending the staircase, he saw his parents already waiting in front of the heavy front door. Their arms were linked, although the cold distance between them belied the intimacy of the gesture. His father glared at him for his near-tardiness as he took his place beside them, settling into stillness mere minutes before the doors opened to reveal the family to whom they would soon be allies.

As soon as Soul saw her, exactly two things were made painfully apparent to him.

The first was that she was beautiful. She wasn't busty or curvaceous, but she had a slender elegance that was impossible to ignore.

The second was that he was completely and utterly screwed.


	5. Old Wounds

Maka stepped lightly through the ornate wooden doors of the Evans estate, hearing the rumble of the carriage receding behind her as she took in her new surroundings. The space in which she found herself was light and airy, with heavy blue drapes pulled to the side to allow sunlight to flood through the house. A glossy black piano stood to one side of the sweeping staircase, and a marble bust on a plinth stood on the other. The polished hardwood floor was partially covered with a large rug in tones of blue and green that complemented the drapes, and upon that rug stood her husband-to-be and his parents. As Spirit exchanged pleasantries with Lord and Lady Evans, Maka took the opportunity to take a look at their son. His hair was still the same stark white as she remembered, and she realized that his eyes were no trick of the light – they were indeed a deep red. He bore an expression of polite disinterest at the proceedings, belied only by the slight twitching of his long, dexterous fingers. She realized he was just as nervous as she was. Tuning back in to their parents' conversation, she breathed a slight sigh of relief that she hadn't missed her cue to introduce herself while distracted by her betrothed's… unusual appearance. "- and this is our son, Solomon," said Lord Evans, subtly nudging his son to introduce himself properly. The younger Evans inclined his head slightly, a hint of reticence showing behind his mask of politeness. He wasn't enjoying this any more than she was, clearly. "A pleasure to meet you," he said quietly. "You can call me Soul, if you like." He inclined his head, eyes flashing up to meet hers, and he gave her a tentative smile. His teeth were pointed like a shark's, gleaming white and almost dangerous in the sunlight. Maka flinched in shock. Shame burned through her immediately afterwards, exacerbated by the look of hurt in his burgundy eyes as he registered her reaction. The dull acceptance that came afterwards somehow made it even worse. "Maka, and the pleasure is mine," she returned lightly. She tried for a genuine smile. He cast his gaze to the floor and remained silent. Sensing the awkward tension between the two of them, Lady Evans cleared her throat. "If you'll follow me, there is a light repast prepared. Perhaps we can discuss matters further over refreshments?" The question was not so much a question as an instruction. Lady Evans turned to exit the room, confident in the knowledge that her family and her guests would follow. Maka glanced briefly between her father and her fiancée (Soul, she reminded herself), caught between the two. With all her knowledge of protocol, this was one situation she'd never studied for – given the choice between her parent and her husband-to-be, at whose side should she walk? Soul wordlessly extended his arm to her. Maka took it without hesitation, mentally thanking him for solving her dilemma even as she ignored her father's outraged sputtering. They were to be married. He would have to get used to it. She glanced up at him from the corner of her eye, noting that the polite mask had returned in full force. She wasn't sure why she felt so guilty. After all, this was just an obligation for him as well, wasn't it? — Soul's eyes flickered down to Maka's arm, resting so easily upon his own. He was somewhat surprised that she hadn't hesitated to touch him, really, given the clear distaste for him that she'd shown in the entrance hall. Not that people finding his appearance distasteful was in any way news, but watching her flinch when she saw his teeth scratched too hard at old wounds for comfort. Never mind that she had tried to make amends. She was a lady of nobility, it was probably just a reflex to smooth ruffled feathers. It didn't mean anything. They continued to follow after his parents in silence, down the short hallway and into the drawing room. It had been immaculately cleaned to prepare for the arrival of their guests, and every surface that could hold any kind of shine did so with vigor. A well-arranged presentation of light refreshments was present on the unnecessarily large table. Soul wasn't entirely sure why the one that was actually meant for a party of five couldn't be used, although he suspected that his parents' love for overstating things was likely at fault. Taking the last few steps towards the table, Soul pulled Maka's chair out for her with his unoccupied hand. She sank into it with a murmur of thanks and a smile as their parents, seated at the complete opposite end of the table, resumed their discussion. An unobtrusive servant placed plates of food before them before slipping away once again. Maka eyed the food, an appreciative look on her face, before pinning him with her emerald gaze. "I'm sorry about earlier. I didn't mean to flinch, it's just, well…" She made a helpless sort of fluttery motion with her hands, as though unsure how to continue her sentence without insulting him. Soul sighed. "It's alright. I'm used to it." He made a point of revealing his teeth as little as possible as he spoke. "That doesn't make it right," she said softly, eyes dropping back to her plate. They picked at their food in silence for the next few minutes, neither one sure how best to break the silence that had fallen between them. Finally, Maka laid her fork to the side. "I think we can agree that our first official meeting wasn't exactly the best of experiences," she said carefully. Soul snorted, expression of schooled neutrality breaking for a moment. "That's an understatement." "So how about we start over?" Maka chirped. "Hello, I'm Maka, thank you for having me." She smiled at him, clearly expecting him to reciprocate her (second) introduction. "Soul," he said simply. "Thanks for coming." He tried a smile again, less tentative this time. She didn't flinch when she saw his teeth. He counted that as progress. 


	6. Bandaging the Beast

Maka ran, gasping hard, cloak flapping behind her, and emphatically cursing her papa's abysmal sense of direction. Because if he hadn't gotten lost in the woods then she wouldn't have had to _rescue _him, and she wouldn't have been stuck with that _beast, _and she wouldn't have had to run off after being an inch away from getting _mauled _by said beast, and oh yeah – _she wouldn't be sprinting for her life through the snow being chased by a pack of enormous spiders. _They were each almost the size of a wolf, scuttling over the frozen ground with their mandibles clacking ominously. Their eight eyes burned almost violet through the winter night. Maka ran harder.

So maybe she'd been curious, and maybe she'd wandered up to the forbidden wing of the old manor house. And maybe she'd seen the family portrait on the wall, dimly illuminated by the light of the glowing orb bobbing in the bell jar. As far as she could tell, that was no reason for her erstwhile captor/host to fly off into a rage. But he had. And as ashamed as she was to admit her fear of him, Maka had lashed back out and ran.

"_You're a monster!" she had screamed, the accusatory words ringing out in the silence like a slap to the face. He had frozen in shock, white-furred paw raised as if to strike her. His claws had gleamed dully in the moonlight. _

_For as many times as she had been angry with him, for as many times as they had disagreed and insults had flown, she had never once called him that. She turned and fled, booted feet pounding against the floor as he slowly lowered his paw behind her. She tried to block out the small, choked noise of hurt that had issued from his throat._

In turning to see how much distance remained between her and the eight-legged predators behind her, Maka tripped and fell over a protruding tree root. Lying sprawled on the ground as the skittering noises of the spiders drew closer, she could only hope and pray that they would kill her quickly. She wished that Soul were here. Her last goodbye should be something much kinder than the insults she had thrown.

Soul bounded through the snow, glad for once of his beastlike form as he tracked Maka's scent through the stench of Arachne's spiders. Damn her. Damn that impulsive, maddening girl for running off into monster-infested territory. Damn her for her inquisitive nature, but damn him for reacting as badly as he did. He scared her, he knew, but it was only a matter of time before she became as truly frightened of him as everyone else who had ever seen him in this state. She had finally said it. It shouldn't have hurt so badly.

Damn him for caring, for thinking that maybe just this once the universe had relented and allowed him something nice.

He ran faster, because he couldn't let her die.

Bounding over the crest of a hill, he saw her lying prone on the ground, the horde of spiders rapidly descending. A blinding fury flooded his senses, because _no she's mine she's MINE YOU CANNOT TAKE HER BECAUSE MAKA IS MINE._ A menacing snarl tore its way out of his throat as he leapt down into the hollow, claws flashing like steel. He landed on all fours and crouched over Maka's slight form, howling his challenge to the spiders. She was his, and they could not take her. They surged forwards, a roiling mass of legs and bulbous bodies and clacking mandibles, and he bared his teeth. He could take them all. He _would_ protect her.

His claws slashed out into the shadows, and he once again sent a bitter thanks to the witch who had caused his transformation. At least now he could protect the one person he cared about, even if it was from dangers that he had driven her into himself.

The battle was over.

Maka stared for a moment as the beast, _her _beast, her Soul, staggered slightly towards her before collapsing. His visible eye rolled tiredly towards her as she stepped towards him over the steaming spider viscera, luminescing in acid green. Blood, as red as his eyes, streamed from the many jagged wounds inflicted by the spiders and stained his bone-white fur. He panted, rib cage visibly expanding and contracting against the hard ground.

Maka felt like crying.

Here he was, torn to pieces because of her own stupidity. He'd left the sanctuary of the estate to save her life, even after she'd said such terrible things to him and broke her promise and—

No. She couldn't think about that right now. She had to help him, somehow. Steeling herself, she knelt by his side and placed a tentative hand on his muzzle.

"Can you stand?" she asked softly. "If we can get back to the manor, I'll try to patch you up."

Soul let out a low, animalistic whimper of complaint at the request for motion, exhausted beyond words by the desperate battle. He complied after a moment, though, heaving his bulk off the ground. Maka placed a hand against his shoulder to steady him. They took small, silent steps through the winter night, tired feet carrying them home.

"OUCH! Damn it, woman, that hurt!"

"Well, if you'd quit SQUIRMING, it wouldn't hurt so badly!"

The two of them had finally arrived back at the slowly crumbling manor house, Soul collapsing in front of the massive fireplace in the drawing room while Maka ran off to find adequate first-aid supplies. So far, the spider-inflicted wounds didn't seem to be poisoned, a fact for which she was deeply relieved. She knew basic treatment of wounds. That, she could handle. Poisoned bite wounds delivered by magical spiders, however, she did not. Upon beginning to clean out one of the numerous wounds scattered across Soul's form, she discovered that despite the ferocity with which he'd fought he was a total baby when it came to pain. Progress at cleaning his wounds, accordingly, had been exceedingly slow.

Releasing a massive sigh, Maka rested her hand on a non-injured section of his side. "Look, this is the last one, okay? After that I just need to bandage them all."

Soul grunted. "I can take care of tha- AH. DAMN it." Wincing at her treatment, he continued. "I can take care of that. You don't have to."

Maka raised her eyebrow skeptically. "Even the ones on your back?"

He grumbled a little but conceded the point. She set the bottle of ointment aside, along with the cloth she'd used to apply it, and grabbed the roll of bandages she'd found in a supply closet. Setting to work on covering his wounds, she sighed again.

"Sorry."

"What for?" Soul asked.

"For running off. You got hurt because of me," she said, "and I'm sorry."

"It's fine," he said tiredly, resting his head on the floor.

She murmured something inaudible as she continued to apply bandages, her hands seemingly running on muscle memory alone.

"Hmm?"

"I said I'm also sorry for what I said to you. You know… earlier."

"That's okay too. I kind of expected it by now, to be honest. Most people call me a monster straight away. Your dad did," he added as an aside.

Maka grimaced. "My dad is an idiot. And besides, you're not a monster. Not really. It's not the form that matters, it's the soul. Right?" she asked softly.

Soul laughed, a harsh and barking thing that left him gasping in pain. "You've seen my soul, Maka. It's already halfway to monstrous."

_So that was what the orb in the bell jar was,_ she realized suddenly. No wonder he was so protective of it. Tying off a knot on the last bandage, she padded softly towards his head and knelt at his shoulder, fisting a hand into the thick ruff adorning his neck.

"No," she murmured, wondering where this surge of boldness had come from but deciding that she didn't really care. "I don't think so."

Soul pressed up into her touch, a low rumble vibrating out from his chest. She uncurled her hand from his ruff and began tentatively stroking along his head, right between his ears as she would a dog. Her touches became firmer as the rumbling increased in volume, and Soul relaxed under her ministrations. Eventually his breathing slowed, the rhythmic rise and fall of his rib cage a solid indicator that he had fallen asleep. Maka slowly ceased stroking him, lulled into drowsiness herself by both the warmth of the fire and the comforting solidity of Soul's body behind her. She snuggled up to his side, slipping quietly into sleep herself. She could scarcely believe she had ever felt truly frightened by him.

At some point during the night, Soul became aware that Maka was still curled softly against his side. Curving his body to meet her own, he was rewarded with a sleepy sigh as she pressed deeper into his fur. He fell back asleep with her hand curled lightly into his ruff.

And as he awoke the next morning, he realized that for the first time since his transformation he had slept without a single nightmare.


	7. Near-Incoherently Drunken Love

Soul nudged the empty bottle with his toe and watched it topple over, the sound of glass rolling over stone echoing through the cavernous wine cellar. He grinned lazily at the noise, head swimming from the copious amount of alcohol he had consumed. It was their wedding night, and he was drinking, because he should have known it was too good to be true. Just the other day, he recalled fuzzily, he had been happy. He had been so, so deliriously happy, because of Maka. Because he thought she actually, by some miracle, cared for him. And then it all came tumbling down.

"_I suppose you'll be glad when this is over," she'd said. He cocked his head to the side slightly, brow furrowing at the statement._

"_When what's over?"_

"_All of this. The wedding, everything." Her hand circled in the air to encompass all the pomp and circumstance surrounding the event._

_He chuckled. "I'll definitely be happier when there aren't so many people around, that's for sure."_

_Now it was Maka's turn to furrow her brow. "That's not what I meant. Won't you be glad to get it over with? It's just another obligation."_

"_Just another…? Oh. Right, of course," he said, barely managing to mask the sudden bitterness in his voice. "An obligation." Because of course that's all it is, he thought. All he is to her is just another obligation, and nothing more._

_He rose suddenly to leave, shaking off Maka's hand as it caught his wrist. "I'll see you at the wedding," he said, voice heavy as he walked away. He should have known._

Soul leaned his head back against the cold stone wall, closing his eyes as the pleasant fuzz of drunkenness continued to further obfuscate his thoughts. He knew he would have to face her in the morning with some excuse for his actions. Because he sure as hell couldn't tell her the truth. Groping blindly for the second bottle of wine he'd opened that night, he tilted his head back and drank.

Maka paced across the floor of her – no, _their _bedroom, a mixture of annoyance and worry flooding through her at every step. As soon as they'd returned to the Evans estate after the wedding, Soul had practically sprinted off somewhere in the bowels of the enormous building, and she didn't know why. Surely her company wasn't that terrible? She knew that he hadn't enjoyed the wedding, even less so the reception that followed. Entertaining people wasn't something he enjoyed, a fact she'd learned early on. But his outward discomfort had started even earlier. Right around… oh. Of course.

She had attempted to engage him in conversation to take his mind off the ordeal of their impending nuptials, knowing full well that he wasn't too thrilled to be up in front of so many people. But she'd tripped over her tongue and over her own insecurities, and it was as if her words had shattered his façade of pleasantry. She wasn't sure what she'd said wrong. Even if she had fallen head over heels for her betrothed, she had been certain he had only seen it as an obligation and nothing more. No matter how much she wished otherwise. Maka supposed he had done an excellent job at pretending to like her up until that point, though, even if the reminder of their duty had derailed it. She sighed. Even though Soul likely wouldn't welcome her presence, she still felt slightly duty-bound to locate him anyway.

Soul squinted into the slowly lifting gloom between the wine racks, wine-fogged brain struggling to inform him that there was a light coming his way. It was accompanied by soft footsteps. He wondered why that could be. Because his parents wouldn't care he was down here, and Maka didn't like him, and her dad REALLY didn't like him. Which left only him in the house. And since he was sitting on the floor, he couldn't be out looking for his own self. Or could he…?

Losing the struggle against that particular thought, Soul looked up at the person to whom both the light and the footsteps belonged. It looked a lot like Maka. He wrinkled his nose at her, because he was pretty sure she wasn't real. He figured it was important that he informed her of that.

"You're not real," he said imperiously, pointing a finger somewhere in the direction of her left shoulder. He'd meant to point at her face, but his arm was being stubbornly disobedient tonight. Stupid arm.

Not-Real Maka frowned. "Of course I'm real. And you," she continued, nudging an empty bottle with her toe, "are extremely drunk. Let's get you to bed, okay?"

Soul shook his head at her. "No, can't do that. B'cause Maka's probably sleeping already, 'n I'm fine on the floor," he slurred.

"Look, Soul, you need to get to bed, okay?" His stunningly realistic hallucination of his new bride put out her hand to help him rise. Instead, he tugged her down to the floor with him. She let out a squeak of surprise at her sudden change in altitude before landing partially on his lap. She scurried quickly off of him, a mortified blush creeping up her cheeks. Soul sort of wished she'd stayed sitting on top of him. Not-Maka was a lot warmer than he'd thought she'd be, for a drunken hallucination. Almost as nice as the real thing.

"Mmm, stay down here for a bit," he murmured, leaning over until his head rested comfortably on her shoulder. He would never be allowed to do this by the light of day, he knew. Both because of etiquette, and because his bride would never allow it. He thought that Not-Maka should know this as well, since she seemed convinced that she was real. He told her so.

"Real Maka wouldn't let me do this, probably. Put a book in my head if I tried. That's how I know you're fake," he informed her.

Maka twisted around in shock to stare at her husband of barely twelve hours. The sudden motion dislodged his head from her shoulder, and he fell into her lap. He chuckled, the warm sound slightly distorted by the alcohol he'd consumed.

"Real Maka would DEFINITELY kill me for doing this," he said, gesturing vaguely to indicate his current position on her lap.

Giving up the cause of convincing her drunken spouse that she was, in fact, real, Maka sighed. "No, she wouldn't."

"'S okay, Fake Maka. I know you're lying. She'd never let me, never ever in a million years." Soul sounded almost mournful at the end of his statement, and Maka's curiosity was piqued. Soul seemed like a chatty kind of drunk – maybe he'd elaborate if she asked him. She tried to tamp down the flicker of hope that sprung up in her chest at the implications of his statement.

"Why would you say that?" she asked, trying for a casual tone.

"She doesn't like me," he replied promptly, melancholy tone still present in his voice. "Not really. I'm just an oblil- an obbla- an ob…" He frowned at his unruly tongue, clearly willing it to cooperate.

Maka frowned. "An obligation?"

"Yep," he said, popping the 'p'. "She said so this morning. Maka hates lying, so I know it's true," he added conversationally. Maka's heart sank. She knew exactly what he was talking about.

A few moments passed in silence. Maka stared down at the head of fluffy white hair resting on her thigh, wondering if Soul would mind her touching it. She'd always wondered what it would feel like. Feeling him shift slightly on her lap, Maka turned her attentions back down to him.

"Hey, Fake Maka?" Soul asked, voice tentative in the semidarkness.

"Mmm?"

"Can I tell you something?"

Maka blinked. "Of course, Soul. Whatever you want."

He appeared to weigh the risks and consequences of whatever it is he was trying to say, before seemingly making up his mind.

"I'm glad you said so. Because I definitely can't say this to Real Maka. She would probably hate me, or leave, or something. And that would be…" He appeared to struggle for the correct adjective for a moment, before settling on one and continuing. "Bad. Really bad."

Maka frowned, wondering what secret Soul was about to divulge that could possibly be so bad as to cause her to leave.

"Promise you won't tell her?" he begged, voice plaintive.

"Of course not," she reassured him, curiosity burning in the pit of her stomach.

He sighed in relief. "Good."

Soul rolled over and snuggled his face into her thigh as if it were a pillow, mumbling something incomprehensible. Saved from the embarrassment of her scarlet blush by the dim lighting, Maka prodded him in the cheek with the tip of her finger.

"What was that?" she asked, trying to keep her voice light. He was going to impart a deep dark secret to her, he couldn't just mumble it into her le–

"I love you," he repeated, words articulated as clearly as could be managed with his advanced stage of drunkenness.

Maka froze.

Soul frowned up at her as he felt her body stiffen beneath him. Great. Even Fake Maka didn't really like him.

"See? This is why I told you not to tell Real Maka about this. This is _exactly _why. 'Cept she'd react worse, I think."

He started to pull away from the warmth of his hallucination's lap. She wrapped her arms around him instead, pulling him back down into a tight embrace, tucking her face into the crook of his neck.

"I love you too," she murmured quietly, still holding him tightly. He could feel her lips feathering across the side of his neck as she spoke, and he smiled sadly.

"I'll take what I can get, I guess," he murmured back. "Even if it's from my own imagination."

They remained in that embrace for a few minutes as Soul's breathing slowed, the wine taking its final toll as drowsiness crept over him. The last thing he remembered before he slipped into blackness was a pair of small, strong hands gently stroking through his hair.

When Soul woke up the next morning, the first thing he noticed was a splitting headache. The second thing was the grey stone walls of the wine cellar. The third thing was the press of Maka's slight form as she dozed on top of him, her head pillowed on his shoulder.

Piecing together the events of the previous night, Soul groaned and immediately regretted it as his headache spiked once again. Shit. Shit shit shit he had gotten wasted and she'd come to get him and he'd told her, holy mother of god he'd _told her, _and now she was probably going to hate him and –

His thoughts stilled as she stirred against his arm, emerald eyes blinking up at him in the dimness. The candle that she'd brought had long since guttered out. Hastily attempting to slide away from her, half-articulated apologies tumbled out over each other in quick succession. She halted them with a single finger over his lips and a frown.

"Soul Evans, you do not even know how annoyed I am at you for your behavior last night." The no-nonsense tone in her voice was one he'd come to learn meant 'pay attention or die', and he cringed.

"Sorry," he mumbled. When he'd started drinking last night, he'd been under the impression that he couldn't possibly feel any worse than he did right then. The combination of a splitting headache and the spikes of dejection currently dominating his emotional range at the moment begged to differ.

Maka sighed, rising gracefully to her feet before offering him her arm. He pulled himself onto his feet with her help, rubbing his temples firmly to try and abate his headache.

"Let's get you cleaned up," she said, a fond smile creeping onto her face.

_Odd, _he thought to himself. After what he'd said and done last night, all of which she'd presumably heard (and some of the details of which currently escaped him), why would she be smiling at him?

He puzzled this out in silence all the way up to their room, although by some miracle they encountered neither the house staff nor their parents. As they separated, Soul to the washroom and Maka to her boudoir, her smile expanded into an absolutely radiant grin.

"Oh, and I love you too, you know," she said cheerfully, before walking out of view and leaving Soul standing somewhat shell-shocked in her wake. A slow grin crept over his features, exposing pointed teeth in a smile to match her own. It stayed there for the rest of the day.


End file.
